


A Vase

by slotumn



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anger, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Catharsis, Character Study, Claude needs a hug, Emotional Constipation, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Politics, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Two Shot, claude Loses It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26603116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slotumn/pseuds/slotumn
Summary: For all Claude knew, his scheme could be falling apart real time, and Nader's men could be fighting Goneril troops right this moment, shattering the not-quite-official ceasefire his mother and father worked so hard to secure.Which would also mean the Alliance army would get completely fucked at Fort Merceus, and all that effort he put into not shooting all those selfish, uncooperative, idiotic nobles on sight would have been for naught, and he'd have to run back to Almyra like a little bitch only to see one of his half-siblings snatch the throne away, and absolutelynothingwould change between the two lands he had the misfortune to be born into, and—"You have House Albany's full support from here on..."—now, one of the good-for-nothing spawns of those good-for-nothing titled bastards showed up to Garreg Mach to kiss his ass all of a sudden, after hiding behind the Empire for five years.A.K.A. Claude loses his temper and chucks a vase at some poor bastard after a very stressful week.
Relationships: Lysithea von Ordelia/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme, Slotumn Portfolio





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the [kink meme](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1608.html?thread=3215944&style=site#cmt3215944). It turned out a lot longer than I expected, but this was pretty fun to write, especially the part where Claude verbally murders the guy lol.
> 
> First chapter is mostly Claude getting stressed and angry, second chapter is comfort, with Lysithea.

If he wanted to bother giving an explanation for it, Claude would begin it with the fact that he had a bad dream the past night.

Dreaming about his academy days wasn't bad in of itself, per se, since those were admittedly some of the best times— no, scratch that, the _only_ good times he truly had in his entire life, even with the whole killing-people-on-behalf-of-the-Church and Flame Emperor shit going on. (Or, looking at it another way, getting thrown into all those incidents together were excellent bonding exercises for the whole class. He'd have to thank Rhea and Edelgard for that sometime.)

Problem was, the army just came back from slaughtering people he knew during those very same academy days, so dreaming about it again felt more like a kick to the groin than anything else. Like his subconscious wanted to rub in that they couldn't go back to those days ever again, that many of the people in his fond memories were dead and gone, at the hands of his own army, no less.

Upon waking, Claude almost wished he felt guilty about what went down at Gronders— wished he was still sensitive enough to stop and cry his heart out over broken friendships and innocent lives lost.

He didn't, and instead dragged himself to the dining hall to wash down breakfast with coffee, flashing grins and how-do-you-do's at the soldiers.

Or maybe the problem had something to do with the fact all of his favorite bows were broken, and the smithy didn't have enough materials to repair them. They'd have to wait a few weeks for the supplies, the blacksmith explained, very much apologetic, so Claude nodded and smiled and said he'd work around it, even though he had no idea as to how.

Then some of the new recruits got injured during flight training alongside their mounts, forcing every available white magic user to attend to them, including the ones who usually didn't heal— and the chances he'd get to banter and relax over strategy with Lysithea was more or less gone for the day. Most other Deer looked like they needed space, as they were (understandably) shaken by what happened in the last battle, and Teach was especially busy consoling the recruits from Black Eagles and Blue Lions.

And as inconvenient as all these things were, he understood why they occured. He really did.

So instead of whining about a bad dream like some child who couldn't read the room, Claude dived into doing paperwork and replying to letters— most of which were from petty self-serving bastards with titles, none from Holst or Nader or anyone else who could give him an update on the border situation.

He tried to remind himself that it was probably too early for any news to arrive, but— hell, for all he knew, his scheme could be falling apart real time, and Nader's men could be fighting Goneril troops right this moment, shattering the not-quite-official ceasefire his mother and father worked so hard to secure.

Which would also mean the Alliance army would get completely fucked at Fort Merceus, and all that effort he put into not shooting all those selfish, uncooperative, idiotic nobles on sight would have been for naught, and he'd have to run back to Almyra like a little bitch only to see one of his half-siblings snatch the throne away, and absolutely _nothing_ would change between the two lands he had the misfortune to be born into, and—

"You have House Albany's full support from here on..."

—now, one of the good-for-nothing spawns of those good-for-nothing titled bastards showed up to Garreg Mach to kiss his ass all of a sudden, after hiding behind the Empire for five years.

"...or rather, please believe me when I say we have always supported you, Duke Riegan, despite the circumstances making it appear otherwise..."

And it wasn't as though the house in question— Albany— was especially worse than any other minor lords in the Alliance. Their territory was close to the Empire, being openly opposed would have been suicide, et cetera, cetera. Frustrating, but that was politics.

"...we were, um, v-very thrilled to hear about your sweeping victory against both the former Kingdom and Empire troops at Gronders..."

The young scion of Albany— Benedict— didn't seem like a particularly vile individual, either. Cowardly and complacent and a total sheep, but too stupid to be actively malicious, and too common of an archetype to waste energy getting mad about.

"We will gladly aid your cause..."

He was probably just saying whatever his parents ordered him to, like he'd done his whole life. Many people born into power were like that, he'd learned— empty shells, shaped into whatever form their parents wanted, who would eventually produce more empty shells of their own to carry on their empty legacies.

"...have gathered a battalion of a hundred soldiers who should arrive here by next week, and, um, here..."

But no matter how irritating he found them on a personal level, allies were allies and support was support, so Claude should have smiled and thanked the guy, spouting the standard shit about the everlasting friendship of the Alliance.

"...please accept this vase, as a token," Benedict said, scrambling to present a fancy ceramic on the desk.

It was white, with intricate paintings of blossoms and leaves and mythical creatures in deep, vibrant blue— probably from the far east, fetching sky high prices in the market alongside silk and spices. Something rich collectors must trip over themselves to get, at least during peacetime.

Claude had to admit, it was beautiful.

"My great-grandfather acquired it from a merchant who worked on the behalf of House Riegan, so it's only appropriate that—"

"You don't understand half of the words you're saying right now, do you."

Beautiful, and oh-so-fucking-infuriating.

Benedict visibly flinched, shoulders jumping up almost to his ears.

"P-Pardon...?" he asked, suddenly unable to make eye contact.

A laugh, flat and dry and humorless, escaped Claude's throat.

"I said, you don't seem to understand half of the things you're saying, or seeing," he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It's fine, there's no shame in it, I'm not judging you or anything."

"..."

"But yeah, when you walked in through the monastery gates earlier, did you just not perceive all the orphans and injured soldiers around these parts?" he continued, still smiling. "Because if that's the case, then I'd genuinely love to have whatever condition you have, being able to see reality in an entirely different light like that."

The man across the table didn't answer.

(Not that Claude expected him to.)

"Seriously, it would make life so much easier if the only things I had to worry about were, say, little token-exchanging rituals in some exclusive little high society club, where everyone's sitting in a circle and verbally sucking off whoever slings their metraphorical dick around the most."

How long had it been since he last spoke like this, Claude wondered— with the intention to outright hurt and injure?

"I always wanted to live in a world where the most difficult thing in a war is deciding which big scary title you should be a bootlicking, cocksucking little bitch to— but alas, I've had no luck on it thus far. Gotta try harder, I suppose!"

He didn't even feel any catharsis from this; the pressure in his chest and head only grew worse with every syllable, if anything.

"All that aside, though, thank you for the gift," he said. "Truly. It's a lovely vase,"

But today, he didn't care enough to stop.

"and I personally think it would see slightly more practical function as an urn for you and your family, hopefully in the near future, than as a so-called token of friendship for me, but hey, I can't tell you what to do with your belongings, right?"

Benedict's head was now bowed far enough that his expression wasn't visible. Silence hung heavy in the room as Claude stared off, past Benedict, not really having anything more to say, but still too angry that he didn't want to give the relief of being dismissed to the scion.

Was he being unnecessarily cruel?

Why, that was the whole point!

Much to his surprise, though, Benedict took a deep breath and began speaking once more, shaky as his voice may have been.

"I am...I sincerely, apologize, sir," he began, whole upper body bowing down so low that he looked about ready to become one with the chair seat. "I was...am...fully aware, that bringing such item as a gift while the people are suffering from war isn't appropriate, but my father, he...wished to be cautious with sending too many troops right away, in the wake of what happened at Gronders..."

More laughter.

"Ooh, sounds like he was "thrilled" about our "sweeping victory" alright."

"Th-that was, what he instructed me to tell you—"

"And you followed it, knowing it wasn't true, to faithfully kiss my ass on your father's behalf," Claude nodded. "I'm very glad for you, seeing how you're living a fulfilling life even with your spine surgically removed."

"...I'm sorry, sir, I will convince him to send more troops as soon as possible, sir."

Exhale, close eyes, inhale, open eyes, exhale.

"We'd have no reason to turn that aid down," Claude said, words calm not scathing for the first time since he began speaking, "provided you will also provide supplies necessary to ensure their survival alongside it. Albany has had successful harvests for the past two years despite the war, correct?"

 _No need to bring up that it was because they sucked up to the Empire_ , he told himself.

"Y-yes, but...but..."

Benedict let out something between a shaky sigh, a sob, and a hiccup.

"But, but, but, but _what_?"

"...The grain stockpiles are...reserved as tribute for Adrestia, in the case of an Imperial victory."

And at that exact moment, Claude felt something burst inside.

"Really," said his voice, distant. "I see."

"I'm, I-I, I sincerely apologize, I do not agree with my father's actions, so if you wish, I will go and convince—"

_SHATTER._

"—a-ah, ahhh,"

He didn't notice something also burst apart outside until a moment later, when he spotted a whimpering Benedict, who seemed to have stumbled backward onto the floor alongside his chair— and pottery pieces.

"Get out," he stated, staring down— he was standing now, when did he stand up?— the pathetic excuse of a scion in front of him.

Benedict was crying— actually full-on crying— now, ungracefully leaking tears and snot across his face.

"S-sir, please, I had no s-say in,"

"I said,"

Claude's voice rose,

"GET—"

and oh, he never realized this, but,

"THE FUCK—"

his desk was surprisingly light!

"— _OUT_!"

Crashes, thuds, yelps, scampering, creaking, more yelling and panicked footsteps.

Silence.

 _Gonna need a whole day to clean up that up,_ Claude thought, falling back into the chair with his arms thrown over his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think Claude would be the type to go off on one of the established canon characters like that, so one of my OCs had to be the victim. Sorry Benedict. 
> 
> Some more notes on Benedict and House Albany, if anyone wants to read it:
> 
> -Benedict's full name is Benedict Cecilio Albany, and his class as a playable unit would be Meme Savant.  
> -In my "official" setting, House Albany is actually struggling a lot financially and probably wouldn't be able to do that double-crossing snake shit written above  
> -Benedict doesn't have a Crest, and his parents basically raised him to be a people-pleasing little bitch because the only hope his house has is marrying up  
> -Except once again, the house isn't well off, so most other opportunistic lords in the Alliance don't want to bother with them, git fucked House Albany lol  
> -Benedict actually goes missing during war phase, running off to become a vagrant with his friend/lover, Arabella, because he grew sick of having to grovel to better off nobles like that  
> -But being a sad pathetic spineless little bitch is still his most notable trait. Sorry Benedict x2


	2. Chapter 2

"Claude. Come with me."

The next few days went without any noticeable hitches. 

He cleaned the office up to be neat and tidy and _dignified_ again, then went about his usual routine of giving out reassuring smiles and lighthearted jokes to whoever needed it, between paperworks, training, paperworks.

(Everyone else was still in their own spaces. A letter from Nader arrived, but it didn't clarify much.)

The fuckup from that afternoon didn't affect things too much, as far as he could tell. Maybe it was because House Albany wasn't too well-liked in the first place (honestly, what noble house was?), or maybe it was because the firsthand witnesses shushed it, but he was still perceived as the trustworthy, reliable pillar of a leader they needed him to be, instead of a tantrum-throwing child who lost his cool on an esteemed (for whatever definition of "esteemed") guest. 

And that was a good thing, Claude told himself, over and over again, when Lysithea showed up in the recently-cleaned office and told him the above. 

It didn't occur to him to ask where they were going or why— maybe because he was tired, or maybe because when your...lover, friend, comrade, tactical study buddy with benefits, whatever the hell they were (they never defined it out loud), was Lysithea von Ordelia and she said to come with, you did it.

So he followed.

\---

They wordlessly soared above the Oghma Mountains' endless peaks, with Lysithea taking the lead, the opposite of their usual flying routine. 

(Which were always for training and never for fun, he suddenly realized, even though he enjoyed flying for his own sake and always wanted to take her on a leisurely flight like this.)

She was quite a sight, snow-white hair on jet-black pegasus, illuminated by the late afternoon sun shining too bright.

It didn't feel real, he thought. 

Or perhaps, too real.

Surreal. 

"...There."

Lysithea began her descent, the movement of her pegasus as sure and accurate as ever, and once again, Claude followed.

"..."

Some semblance of existing, of _being_ , returned when he dismounted, his steps slightly unsteady on the ground. His senses processed the surroundings again, noticing that they were on the top of a cliff, next to a wide stream that rushed down into a waterfall below.

The water was loud, he unceremoniously observed. Loud and fast and reckless, and beyond the waterfall ledge sat a majestic view that inspired an almost religious reverence even in someone like himself.

Indeed, it was the kind of scenery that made you simultaneously think of both how beautiful it was, and how one misstep could send you tumbling to a certain death—

"You can scream now," came Lysithea's voice.

Chortle of surprise. 

"What?"

Lysithea sighed and stepped closer, now standing next to him. Claude continued to stare straight forward, both fixated by the scenery, and afraid of looking at her— as though he'd be unable to keep all his secrets in and fall apart into nothing if he did. 

"Nobody's around— aside from me, but I won't tell anyone," she said, voice slightly softer. "Promise."

His gaze turned downward, looking at his own feet as it scuffled into the ground. 

"Nobody's looking, nobody's listening, nobody's judging, so—" 

There was a grip on his shoulder, far stronger than what he was used to from Lysithea. (How many times did she clench her fists like this underneath desks, a part of him wondered.)

"—get as angry as you want at this awful goddamned world," she stated, tone still steady despite the gritted teeth, "and _scream_."

So he screamed.

\---

The freezing cold stream water was just the right temperature to wash tears and soothe hoarse throats with.

His jacket, gloves, shoes, cravat all lay discarded under a nearby tree, and his hair was starting to fall into his eyes— so Claude went ahead and splashed more water over the top of his head to slick it back, not caring that the excess droplets ran down into his shirt.

When he finally stood up again and blinked, the sky was turning orange from sunset. 

"...Feeling better now?" Lysithea asked, fingers lightly brushing his arm.

Claude took one deep breath, then another, inhaling and exhaling until it wasn't shaky anymore. 

"Yeah," he finally replied. "A lot better."

It was difficult to tell who initiated the crushing hug, but the next thing he knew, Lysithea was firmly nestled in his arms, warm and soft and more _understanding_ than words could ever convey.

"You— you made me worry," she muttered, burying her face into his shoulder.

Worry. Funny she should say that about him— because on most days, he worried over her, far more than he let on, afraid that she might slip away and disintegrate at any moment if he turned his eyes away, with her scrawny frame and ghostly white hair. 

All of that seemed trivial now, because of course she wouldn't disappear; she was right here with him, wasn't she? She was here, she cared, and she...

...let him be the furious little boy the prince of Almyra promised to change the world on behalf of, the helpless runt Duke Riegan was going to deliver a victory to.

"Sorry," he murmured, hugging her even tighter, if that was possible. "I'll make it up to you."

Which angry, scared child was she fighting for?

"T-there's no need to do that," Lysithea huffed, voice shaky. "Just..."

He would find out, once this war was over— as would she.

"...learn to take care of yourself from here on. I won't always be around to help you like this, you know."

And then maybe, he mused, just maybe, the children after them wouldn't have to be enraged by a cruel, unfair world.

With a chuckle, Claude lifted Lysithea's head and kissed her before she could try hiding her face again, pressing his lips to her cheeks, forehead, scrunched eyebrows, and sad little pout.

"As you wish," he said, and gave another kiss just because, "but I'm still going to make it up to you. How about we go to one of the merchants in the marketplace this weekend, see if they have any pretty vases?"

"Vases?" Lysithea asked, staring quizzically. "Why?"

Claude shrugged. "They'd look nice in our rooms. A little something to lift spirits, you know— and you can put lilies in them!"

Lysithea nodded with the tiniest sniffle. 

"Okay," she said, "we can do that."

The two of them hugged once more, listening to the sound of evening birds and crickets as dusk fell over the sky.

"...Or maybe you'd prefer to use the vases as candy jars?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake— !!"

And despite the weight of another person leaning (and pounding her fists) against it, Claude's chest felt lighter than it had in years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not explained in the text, but Lysithea found that waterfall spot while practicing flying to be a Dark Flier, and she probably also goes there to scream from time to time.

**Author's Note:**

> [Join the Lysiclaude Discord!](https://discord.gg/GZmtGbw) (Adults only for ease of moderation, please note.  
>   
> [My twitter](https://twitter.com/slotumn?s=09)  
> 


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